December 2009

Read an exclusive extract from The Not
Knowing (Serpent's Tail 2005), Cathi Unsworth's debut novel,
in which she evokes Gallon Drunk's Camden as referred to in her
Epiphany

The sunlight didn't penetrate the room he was in.
Although the heat did, and it served to raise the sweetish stench
in the dead air around him. Fastidious to the outside world, in
here all was dust. Ghosts floating like motes on the ceiling.

The newspaper headlines returned him to memory.

Of his first visit to Camden Town, when he had tramped the
streets all day. It had been in July of the year before, the height
of the summer and just after he had made these quarters his
permanent home. A time of tracking, of finding his bearings up
there in Camden, the place he needed to be. What he had found was
an intersection, between commerce and misery.

Idly, he fingered a nickel medallion he held in his left hand.
It was a St Christopher, the patron saint of travellers, a totem, a
comfort, to its previous owner.

A virtually incoherent Glaswegian who he had encountered on that
first foray.

St Christopher, who guards the path of the righteous.

At first, confused and upset, he hadn’t realised quite why he
had taken it with him. But in time, it had come to him – it was a
sign. A signpost on his journey.

The men who the saints had forgotten got an iron bed in the
clamouring corridors of Temperance House, the alcoholic’s refuge
that sat in the middle of Arlington Road like a squat, red brick
toad. A Victorian philanthropist had founded the institution and it
remained, the last of its kind in the capital, to shelter the
ragged shadows of men that everyone pretended not to see as they
went about their business of buying from the market. Their only
living philanthropist these days was the patient landlady in the
Irish pub on the corner, a few yards' staggering distance away on
the corner of Inverness Street.

Which was where he had found himself at about six o’clock that
day. The market was starting to pack up as he stopped on the corner
of the little street where the fruit and veg stalls stood,
wondering what to do next. There had been so much to take in and
see already, that now his feet were aching and the heat of the day
was sharpening his thirst. He needed to find a café or a pub, but
which one? There were so many, the choice was bewildering.

The tramp had come staggering out of a doorway to make his
decision for him. His grimy hands clutched around the butt of a
roll-up and a near-empty can of Special Brew.

The man's face suddenly grew resigned and, for some reason, his
next words came out crystal clear.

"Ach mon, nae one understands us. I'm a Camden Town drunk,
eh."

He smiled at this, and thought, well here’s a kindred spirit
then.

"Let me buy you a drink," he had said at once.

The tramp’s face broke into a wide and toothless grin. “Ach,
yeez a gent,” he had proclaimed, leading the way down Inverness
Street to the Hop Poles.

He had been most surprised by that pub. Of all the alehouses he
had sampled in endless London town, this one most closely resembled
those he had used as a teenager. The very old, hopeless winos
occupied the lounge bar and the snug, in various stages of quiet
decrepitude. But the saloon bar, where there was a pool table and a
tiny stage for sporadic attempts at live music, was used by the
rebel set.

And how rebellious they were – worshipping the same greasy gods
as their Teddy Boy forefathers by the look of them. Boys with
slicked-back hair and leather jackets, drape suits and loud shirts;
girls with heavily styled hair and heavily made up faces, pencil
skirts, stiletto heels. They obviously had control over the
contents of the jukebox as Elvis, Jerry Lee, Johnny Cash and Lee
Hazlewood grunted and groaned, twanged and moaned their way through
the smoky air. Which sat well with the old folks as well, gazing
into their beers, their eyes misting over with memories of their
youth, still burnished bright, even when the mundane details of the
current week's events had already been dumped into the synaptic
dustbin.

Two greasers playing pool in their dandified outfits looked up
as they entered. They nudged each other and laughed, muttered
something about another poor sucker.

He ignored them, stood tall.

"What you drinking?" he asked his new companion.

"Highland dew, eh," the man's eyes misted. "Ach, whisky,
pal."

"Landlord, a pint of your finest bitter and a malt whisky for my
friend," he said loudly.

He had always preferred the company of older, more
alcohol-ravaged men anyway. It was easier to hide yourself in the
company of those whom society had already written off.

He could hear the greasers sniggering again, the click of the
cue against balls, Tom Jones singing from the jukebox, dreaming of
the cotton fields of home.

They found a quiet corner, on the other side of the bar, in the
Snug. The alcoholic, Glasgae Boab babbled his life story into a
line of whiskies, enjoying the rare novelty unburdening himself to
uncomplaining ears.
He pretended to listen, but all the while he was watching the
greasers, prickles running up and down his spine. Eyes darting to
the door, just in case the next person who walked in with a big
oily quiff was the one he was looking for. Something told him this
was the right sort of place…

Contributors

On the cover: Holly Herndon – the US sound artist and laptop auteur spreads the faith of the liberating potential of technology. A Primer on the maverick composer Moondog, Daniel Spicer on Brighton's outsider poets and musicians, Lightning Bolt take The Wire's Invisible Jukebox test, Isnaj Dui, Radiophrenia, Jlin and much more. Plus: our latest 20 track CD, free to all readers with The Wire.